Chapter 1 #3
Dad glided a frustrated hand over the top of his head. ‘It’s losing us money, Poppy. It’s no longer a viable concern.’
‘Your dad’s right, darling,’ interjected Mum. ‘I’m not keen on the idea of selling either, but I suppose in business you come to a point where you have to stop being sentimental.’
I couldn’t believe this. ‘But what about giving the cottages a stay of execution? What if you took some more time to think it all over?’
‘Poppy,’ murmured Caleb. ‘That’s what Mum and Dad have been doing for a while now. This hasn’t been an easy decision for them.’
Dad went on to explain the cottages were struggling to compete with stiff holiday-home competition further down the coast. ‘And added to that, the popularity of this Airbnb thing…’
All I could see was my much younger self with long, loose hair flying, helping Mum and Jenny, our stalwart cleaner, make up the cottage beds for guests, the smell of fresh linen, the windows sparkling like mischievous eyes down onto the harbour.
Then I saw myself as a teenager, decorating the cottages for Christmas.
I would string tinsel around the window frames, pin a bushy holly wreath on each door, erect a mini tree in each of the cottage hallways.
At Easter, I remembered concealing Easter eggs for the children of the holidaymakers in the small gardens of the cottages and their eager little faces as they searched around for them.
From being decked in icing-sugar snow to having leaves tumbling across the cobbled courtyard, those dear little cottages had always been an extension of the Summers family – or at least I’d thought so.
I rounded on Caleb. ‘I knew there was something wrong in the car. When was all this decided? Why wasn’t I told before?’ I let out a dry humourless laugh. ‘And what about you and Katie? Where is she?’
‘Mum and Dad wanted to tell you themselves face-to-face. As for Katie, she’ll be along soon. She’s finishing off one of her ceramics.’
Katie Docherty and I met as fourteen-year-olds at a Friday-afternoon art club in the village hall and had been best friends ever since. Then to compound it all, she fell madly in love with my brother, and they got married three years ago.
Katie and Caleb lived in a semi-detached two-bedroom cottage on the far side of Port Starr. They always referred to their home as their ‘little Lego house’ because of its white paint and general solidity. It boasted a mint-green door and matching window shutters.
Katie, like Caleb and me, was Port Starr born and bred, so much so that when her elderly parents felt they needed to be closer to more amenities and had moved from the area to Ayrshire last year, Katie refused to leave our seaside town, saying she couldn’t face the thought of leaving the silvery waters and craggy beauty behind.
Although she and Caleb visited her parents regularly, they stayed put.
My brother’s voice interrupted my reeling thoughts. ‘Look, this isn’t an easy decision for any of us. I mean, Katie helps to clean the cottages, as you know, so when we sell, we’ll probably lose that bit of income – unless the new buyers decide to keep her on. Mum and Dad are being realistic.’
The thought of someone else taking over was impossible to contemplate. As a family, we had so many memories twisted into the fabric of those holiday homes.
Mum’s bright-blue eyes softened. ‘We won’t make any hard-and-fast decisions on whom to sell to until we’re all happy.’
‘Happy?’ I repeated incredulous, letting my eyes drift around the room, taking in the assorted family photos of the four of us.
Their butter-stone fireplace and distressed furniture were every bit as familiar to me as the quaint cottages we owned.
‘Surely selling up is a bit drastic. I thought things were going okay…’ I sat there, fiddling with my hair, disappointment weighing heavy in my voice.
They couldn’t give up on the family business. Surely there was some other way we could turn things around.
Mum and Dad were still talking, their voices layering over my rambling conclusions.
‘I think we’ll get a buyer sooner than we think,’ said Dad.
Desperate ideas nudged at the edges of my mind. The cottages deserved some tender loving care and attention. There was potential there. I just knew it.
Without bothering to marshal my thoughts into some coherent argument, I jumped up from the sofa.
‘Uh-oh,’ Caleb muttered dryly beside me. ‘Why have I got a bad feeling about this?’
‘Give me a year,’ I babbled, the words tumbling out of my mouth in an excited rush. I knew I had to do something, otherwise I’d regret it. In time, we all would. ‘Let me take over the cottages for twelve months.’
Caleb gawped up at me. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I’ll move back here permanently,’ I explained, my heart thudding in my ears. ‘I’ll give up my job at the gallery and my rented flat. I’ll leave London and come home.’
Mum and Dad’s jaws grew slack.
My eyes were pleading. ‘If I haven’t made it a viable business within the year, then you can sell it.’